Free Cherrybrook Rose by Tania Crosse Page A

shoulder, landed lightly on the ground as she came towards him, leading Gospel by the reins. ‘The stone circle at the other end,’ she explained in a reverent whisper, ‘’tis an ancient burial site, or so we believe. For village chiefs. Or maybe priests.’
    â€˜And the stone row?’ he replied in a low voice.
    â€˜We don’t know. Perhaps graves of ordinary people, or marking the way to the sacred site.’
    â€˜Well, it’s certainly impressive. It must be, what, nearly a quarter of a mile long at a guess.’
    â€˜There are some over a mile and a half, but they’re much further away.’
    â€˜Good heavens.’
    She looked at him askew as they ambled along the row of stones, the corners of her mouth lifted pleasurably. He clearly appreciated the mystic grandeur of the place, which elevated him considerably in her esteem. Her keen eyes scanned the horizon, the moor seemingly endless in that particular area, apparently stretching to infinity. It was easy to understand why it had been chosen as a ceremonial site.
    â€˜They must have been some sort of pagans. Druids, perhaps?’ Charles mused softly.
    â€˜Possibly,’ Rose agreed. ‘But I don’t suppose as we’ll ever know for certain.’
    They walked on, stopping a while by the stone circle before remounting. But there seemed little to say, and Rose set Gospel at a loping canter, leaving the ancient monument behind them and gradually heading more steeply downhill until they crossed over a small bridge and climbed the valley on the far side. Charles followed, not pausing until they reached the gushing, evidently man-made waterway that blocked their path.
    â€˜Dock Leat,’ Rose answered his enquiring expression. ‘There’s lots of leats on the moor. Brilliant engineering, using the contours of the land to maintain the correct flow. For industrial use mainly. You must have seen them at the powder mills yesterday. This one’s for drinking water and such at Devonport, mind. There’s huge flat stones set across to form bridges. You may need to lead the mare across if she’s not used to them.’
    â€˜You just lead the way, Miss Maddiford,’ Charles enthused, following her advice, not sure which inspired him the more, Rose herself or her passion for the thrilling landscape of the moor. Which, when he thought about it, were really one and the same thing!
    â€˜Race you to the top!’ she yelled unexpectedly as he sprang back into the saddle. ‘Up there!’ she nodded, waving at what to Charles seemed like an impossibly steep crag.
    And she was off, laughing into the wind as Gospel charged forward along a narrow grassy pathway through the rock-strewn landscape. Charles shook his head. There was absolutely no way he could catch up with her. But he didn’t care. He had never been one to long for women’s company. The ladies of London society with whom he was acquainted held no pleasure for him. He had maintained a mistress once in his youth, a clean young girl who had been devoted to him, though he had always made it clear they could never be wed. She had been a virgin, as he had been, and though he had kept her purely for his carnal satisfaction, he had held a certain fondness for her. Foolishly, without telling him, she had fallen pregnant and sought help in a London back street, and the ensuing infection had killed her. Since then, Charles Chadwick had turned his back on the female race. Until now. His mind had been intoxicated, his heart quickened and enflamed. There was no one in the world like Rose Maddiford, and he would have her as his bride to honour and to worship.
    Having dismounted somewhere near the bottom, she was now standing on the summit of the rocky tor, silhouetted against the skyline like some apparition from the realms of fantasy, her arms lifted and spread towards the heavens, as magnificent as the beast she had left to await her.